


Nothing to Do but Marry the Rest of the World

by tamerofdarkstars



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Case Fic, Cliche: Matchmaking, M/M, Matchmaking, ariadne meddles, arthur and eames aren't sure how to deal with feelings, im gonna call it a case fic, kind of, there's a dream extraction storyline, would you call these case fics?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2013-12-18
Packaged: 2018-01-04 21:42:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1086008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tamerofdarkstars/pseuds/tamerofdarkstars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Less than a year after the Saito job, Arthur and Ariadne reunite with Eames to pull off a job against an American CEO that will have startling revelations for everyone involved.</p><p>Or, the one where I attempt to write a matchmaking fic and end up with more of a plot than I'd planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, I made a prompt list for myself a little bit ago where I took fandom cliches and matched them to various fandoms I loved. Inception was paired with matchmaking, and here we are. This is my first work in the Inception universe because while it's my absolute favorite movie of all time, I've been too nervous to try writing the characters, so I hope you all enjoy. :)
> 
> I have the entire fic written and ready to go, so there will be updates of two chapters every 24 hours until it's completed.
> 
> Also, the title is a quote from Jane Austen's Sense and Sensibility: “Mrs. Jennings was a widow, with an ample jointure. She had only two daughters, both of whom she had lived to see respectably married, and she had now therefore nothing to do but to marry all the rest of the world.” 
> 
> -  
> Part of my Personal Cliche Prompt Challenge!  
> Cliche: Matchmaking

The shot knocked him backwards into the wall, and hurt like hell for the few seconds he could still breathe.

Arthur jerked awake with a strangled gasp just as Ariadne came to life beside him, scrambling to yank the PASIV out of her arm. “Shit.” She breathed and Arthur whole-heartedly agreed.

In front of them, the minor government official stirred, eyes flickering uneasily beneath his eyelids and Arthur was instantly up and out of his seat. Ariadne began packing the PASIV, hands deft and quick, while Arthur erased their presence from the hotel room. In moments, Mr. Tomas Gibb would wake up, confused and slightly ill, and his hotel room would look exactly as it had when the sedatives in his bourbon had knocked him out. He would, however, have the strangest urge to call his wife and confess his involvement with his secretary. In fact, the number would be half-dialed before the conscious thought had even crossed his mind.

The unfortunate part was the complete and total disintegration of the dream state as Gibb’s subconscious organized and revolted against them. Tomas Gibb would probably have some unfortunate side effects in the form of nightmares and splitting, debilitating headaches. He’d certainly never be able to look at his mistress again without flashes of a half-forgotten memory buried somewhere in a long-gone dream.

Well, win some, lose some.

Arthur and Ariadne parted ways at the door to Gibb’s room, striding off at opposite ends of the hallway. Arthur hefted the briefcase containing the PASIV and took the stairs two at a time, mind whirling. He crossed the lobby of the hotel at the same time as Ariadne, walking past her with a brush of the shoulder and a murmured apology.

He walked out onto the sidewalk, turning a sharp left and vanishing into the crowd almost immediately. He hadn’t gone two blocks before Ariadne materialized at his side, squinting into the chilly rain that misted around them. They were quiet, eyes straight ahead, for another block and a half before Ariadne spoke.

“Well.”

“Yeah.”

“That could have probably gone better.”

“Yeah.”

“… Is Gibb gonna be ok?”

Arthur gave her a half-shrug and held open the door for her. She ducked inside, shaking her head slightly to flick the raindrops of the ends of her hair, and crossed to the automatic ticket machine. “North or south?” She asked over her shoulder.

“South. Spain sounds nice.”

Ariadne bought the tickets while Arthur kept an eye on the door. While he didn’t think Gibb could mobilize anyone to come after them this quickly, he’d learned a long time ago that trouble usually showed up when he least expected it.

Twenty minutes later they were on a train, rattling through southern France and heading for Spain. Arthur and Ariadne sat diagonally, spread enough to discourage others from sitting near them. To any passersby, they looked like a business man and a college student, sharing a compartment as they headed off to parts unknown.

Ariadne glanced at Arthur. He looked tired – there were circles under his eyes and he picked at his sleeve cuff absentmindedly, eyes on the scenery that flicked past the window. She frowned, just a hint of downturned lips.

“Doesn’t look like you’re sleeping.” She said casually. Arthur’s eyes flicked to hers, and he gave her the barest hint of a ghost of a smile.

“Lot on my mind.” He nodded and her eyebrows pinched. Arthur’s eyes slid up over her shoulder to the blinking red lights that signaled the next stop, ending any opportunity she had to ask him what was wrong. Ariadne pretended to go back to her book.

After a moment, Arthur rustling around caught her attention and she glanced up to see him digging his phone out of his pocket and glance at the screen. He smiled, a half tug on the corner of his lips and he lifted his phone up in front of his face and pointed it at the sign above the compartment door. He snapped a picture.

Ariadne glanced at the sign – Próxima Parada: Barcelona-Sants – before turning back to Arthur. He was just looking up from his phone and their eyes met.

Arthur shook his head slightly and Ariadne didn’t look his way for the rest of the train ride.

It was dusk by the time they reached Madrid Atocha, and Ariadne followed Arthur off the train and onto the platform.

She waited until they got all the way out of the station and onto the street before she asked.

“Now what?”

All around them, the Spanish night life was just beginning, and snatches of laughter and conversation rolled over them like music. Arthur loosened his tie and unbuttoned his vest, rolling his sleeves. “Now we find somewhere and lay low.”

“Lay low?” Ariadne couldn’t keep the whine out of her voice. It was late, and she was exhausted. Not that Madrid wasn’t absolutely amazing, but all she wanted to do was sleep a deep, dreamless sleep for the next two weeks. “What do you mean, lay low?”

Arthur smiled slightly and put a hand in the small of her back, steering her gently down the sidewalk. “Lay low. Make sure we got away. If we’re still good tomorrow, then it’s up to you.”

Ariadne couldn’t help the grin that crossed her face. After the Fischer job, the moment that 747 touched down in LA, Ariadne had felt lost and confused. She’d stood in the middle of a busy airport, hand on her bag and her blood roaring in her ears, and felt close to tears. She had so much adrenaline pumping through her veins that she couldn’t focus on anything – every time someone brushed past her she jumped, expecting a subconscious soldier to turn on her with bloodlust and teeth bared.

In all the commotion – what with Cobb frantic to see his children and everything – it seemed that she, the newbie of the group, had been forgotten. And now she found herself at the tail end of her first illegal dream job without the slightest clue of what to do next.

The first week had been rough. She’d gotten a cab and a hotel room and spent the first night absolutely plastered, drinking everything she could find in the mini-bar.

Six days later and she’d pulled herself out of bed (the clock read 4:17 but she had no idea if it was am or pm) and opened the hotel door to find Arthur standing before her, smartly dressed with a smirk on his face.

“Need an architect.” He said airily. “How do you feel about Norway?”

She’d been packed in under ten minutes.

Now, six months after they’d pulled off the greatest escapade in dream sharing history and she was standing on a sidewalk in Madrid, the sun setting behind the train station, and Arthur said that their next move was “up to her”.

“What about New Zealand?” She asked, stretching her arms above her head. “I’ve always wanted to go there. See the whole walk to Mordor?”

Arthur snorted in a completely undignified manner when he glanced into the window of a nearby restaurant. It was a small, touristy paella place, with a brightly colored sign advertising the menu del dia. He smirked. “Hang on.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket and lifted it, snapping a picture of the sign.

Ariadne frowned. “Why do you keep doing that?”

“Hm?”

“That. The picture thing. Isn’t that a burn phone?”

“Oh.” Arthur glanced at the phone in his hand. “Well, yeah.”

“So what’s with the pictures?”

Arthur suddenly looked a little uncomfortable, and shifted his weight to his other foot. He shoved the phone in his pocket. “Don’t worry about it.” He said smoothly.

Ariadne’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline. “Arthur—”

“Come on, I want to get this off the street.” He tapped her hip with the PASIV and she resigned herself to sneaking the answer out of him later.

Later didn’t come until well past midnight, when the two of them were holed up in a tiny hostel above a seafood restaurant. Despite both their bank accounts being well and truly fluffed by Mr. Saito after Inception, the hostel was clean, quiet, and more importantly, discrete.

Arthur had thrown his bag onto the bed nearest the window and instantly vanished into the bathroom to take a shower. Ariadne made it an entire minute before diving towards his bed and digging in his things. She pulled the phone out of the pocket and flipped it open, scrolling until she found what she was looking for.

Ariadne sat on the bed and stared at the message before her face split into a grin. There were four.

_Prague, darling. bored out of my skull, ana talks to us like she’s teaching preschoolers to colour_

There was a picture attached, some building at a cockeyed angle with a view overlooking the water. Ariadne wasn’t sure who Ana was, but it was apparently from the disdain that dripped from Eames’ text that he didn’t like her. Arthur’s response was simpler.

_Make sure you color inside the lines, then, or Ana will be upset._

The picture attached with this one was the sign from the train that displayed Barcelona-Sants as their next stop.

Hours later and Arthur had sent another message, this one with the photo of the paella restaurant attached.

_Never again._

Eames had replied not twenty minutes before they’d booked the hostel.

_You wound me, darling._

Ariadne blinked at the phone and realized that the water in the bathroom had shut off. Frantically, she shoved the phone back into Arthur’s bag and threw herself onto her bed, grabbing her book and flipping to a random page.

He barely looked at her, entering the room toweling off his hair. Ariadne could still remember the first time she saw him dressed down, hair mussed and wet from his shower and smirked. If she could go back and tell the scared girl on the bench, lips tingling from that brief kiss, that six months from now she’d be sharing a bedroom with the man who might as well be her brother, she’d have laughed until she was blue in the face, taken a deep breath, and then laughed some more.

Ariadne peeked at him over the top of her book to find him scrolling his phone messages.

She smiled to herself. Her mother had always warned her not to meddle. But there was nothing wrong with keeping her eyes open, was there?


	2. Chapter 2

Honestly, with all the work and the flourish of new jobs, Ariadne rather forgot about the text messages. She and Arthur hooked up with an extractor in Istanbul for a quick job before heading to Oslo for a job that could only be described as a complete and utter clusterfuck.

Arthur and Ariadne split up for three weeks after that to hide from the authorities. She went to Paris and practiced her admittedly woeful French (she was so out of practice it was embarrassing) and Arthur vanished somewhere in the Hungarian forests. They resurfaced on a dreary Friday in Copenhagen. Ariadne was sipping coffee at a small café, pretending to read the Danish newspaper she’d grabbed, when the chair next to her was occupied and her coffee was gone.

“Hey, get your own.” She said mildly, not looking up from the picture of the grinning blonde in the entertainment section. She didn’t recognize him, but he had a nice smile.

Arthur’s laugh was low and easy. “You put too much sugar in it anyway.”

Ariadne looked up over the top of her newspaper and grinned. “Glad to see you’re still alive.”

He returned the sentiment with a nod and signaled the waitress, placing a quick coffee order in stilted Danish. As soon as she was gone, Arthur turned back to Ariadne, suddenly serious. “You up for another job?”

Ariadne raised an eyebrow. “So soon?”

Arthur shifted in his chair, glancing over his shoulder. “It’s a friend of mine. Extractor I knew back when I worked with Mal and Dom. She’s good, and called me to cash in a favor. I… may have mentioned I was working with the best architect in the business right now.” Half his mouth turned up in a smile and Ariadne rolled her eyes at him.

“Flattery will get you nowhere. Is it warmer than Oslo?”

Arthur just laughed. “How does Florida sound?”

Florida. And damn if that wasn’t the sweetest sound she’d ever heard.

\--

Ariadne remembered the flirty text messages about five minutes after walking into the warehouse (and why, why was it always warehouses) where their extractor had already set up base camp. Arthur strode into the warehouse and up to the woman – a tall, no-nonsense blonde with a semi-permanent stern look plastered on her face – and embraced her, kissing both her cheeks.

“Nice to see you, Arthur.” Gretel Wilkins spoke with a distinct accent, but the crease between her eyes seemed to ease just a bit when she saw Arthur.

Arthur stepped back and introduced Ariadne. Gretel’s handshake was firm and Ariadne absolutely did not wince when she felt her fingers crack.

“Our chemist is out.” Gretel said. “But our forger is in the back. This is a big one, Arthur. We’re going to need everything you can dish out.”

Arthur nodded sharply and Ariadne recognized the professional persona settle over him, erasing the ease from his features. His whole body got sharper, more defined, and he carried himself completely differently from the man that would throw himself down onto a hotel bed in a faded Harvard t-shirt, turn on the shittiest reality TV he could find and challenge her to a drinking game. 

Then Ariadne looked over Arthur’s shoulder and spotted Eames coming round the corner.

“Eames!” She was around Arthur and across the room in a heartbeat, wrapping Eames in a tight hug. Eames hugged her back, ruffling her hair.

“Look at you, still getting into trouble.” He grinned and released her as Ariadne shrugged, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Eames glanced up over her shoulder and there it was. Ariadne could see the exact moment that Eames laid eyes on Arthur and honestly, she was shocked she hadn’t seen it before today. Maybe it was credit to Eames’ forging abilities, but there had always been only one person that got that tiny smile out of him.

“Hello, Arthur. No kiss for me, then?”

Arthur’s lips twitched but he remained solid next to Gretel. “Good to see you, Eames.”

There was silence for a moment before Ariadne rolled her eyes and muttered something about idiots before turning back to Gretel and asking where she could be set up.

The mark was James Harrison, mid-thirties and brilliant, one of the youngest CEOs in America. He owned a large marketing firm that was rapidly beginning to overtake the competition, and the competition was getting royally pissed off, especially with the rumors that James had poached his lead marketing team from his biggest competitor, NASH Marketing and Promoting. It was there that the dream team would come in – Gretel as extractor, Arthur running point, Ariadne with architecture, Eames as forger and Mark Schmidt, a small, bespectacled, nervous man as their chemist.

It would be a simple but important job – extract the names of the people James had poached and prove they were double-crossing their company. The only problem was James was absolutely militarized against extraction, so getting the information would not be easy. In fact, from the information Arthur had been able to ferret out about James’ militarization, it would probably be a full out nightmare. But, the paycheck at the end of it was nothing to sneeze at so they were gonna grit their teeth and do the job right.

It was a week after they gathered in the warehouse for the first time and Ariadne was already running on too much caffeine and not enough sleep. She was crouched over a layout, frowning at the maze she was trying to build. There was something wrong, something that didn’t feel natural still, and she’d be buggered to figure out what it was. Exasperated and exhausted, Ariadne threw down her pencil and looked up to find herself alone in the warehouse. Well, nearly alone.

Mark was passed out across from her, snoring dangerously close to a row of neatly labeled beakers with his glasses pushed up his nose crookedly. Gretel was gone. Ariadne vaguely remembered her saying something about getting a drink a few hours ago and leaving in a swirl of long black jacket.

The soft murmur of voices drew her attention, and she stood up, stretching until her spine popped, and followed the sound.

Arthur was standing over his workspace, papers strewn every which way. His hair, which had been slicked back that morning, was fighting free of its gel strand by strand, and he’d long since shed his jacket and loosened his tie to account for the sticky, Florida heat. He appeared to be trying to set the desk on fire with his glare alone.

Eames was leaning against the desk next to him, arms folded across his chest as he stared fixatedly at his shoes. “… were traveling together.” He was saying softly. Arthur sighed and straightened up.

“I wasn’t just gonna leave her in the middle of LAX, Eames.” He said without looking at him. He picked up one of the paper stacks and eyed it suspiciously. “Besides, we’re working well together.”

Ariadne realized they were talking about her and leaned a shade closer.

“Real bloody close now, aren’t you?”

“Honestly, Eames, jealousy is petty.”

Eames huffed and shifted against the desk. It scraped a little on the floor and Arthur frowned slightly, glancing to his left at Eames’ elbow. For a moment, nothing moved.

“Are you sleeping with her?”

Arthur made a strangled kind of choking noise and Ariadne prayed to every deity she knew that neither man heard her snort out a laugh. But Eames hadn’t seemed to notice and was pressing on.

“I’m only asking for the sake of the kid. She’s bright and young and she doesn’t need to be led on.”

“Led on.” Arthur said, voice faint, like he couldn’t believe he was having this conversation. “Eames, Ariadne is… brilliant. She’s talented and can hold liquor better than most of the men I’ve drank with.” He smirked. “Not to mention her absolutely embarrassing knowledge of Jersey Shore. But trust me. Ariadne is… not my type.”

Now Arthur was starting to color a bit, just around the ears, the way he did sometimes when they had drunk too much and he and Ariadne were sprawled across a hotel bed, reminiscing about the past. From her hiding place, Ariadne was having serious trouble holding in her giggles. Not his type indeed. She was missing a few key biological components to be considered Arthur’s type.

Eames seemed to realize he’d slipped up and pushed off the desk, standing straight up and stepping a respectable distance away from Arthur. Arthur turned around and they faced each other in the small pool of light from Arthur’s desk lamp.

There was a heavy, tense silence. Arthur uncrossed his arms. “Eames...”

“Good talk, Arthur.” Eames said, interrupting him. “Glad to have you on the job.” He clapped him on the shoulder as he strode past him, striding – no, almost running – towards the door to the warehouse. He tossed a “See you” over his shoulder before Eames was gone and Arthur was left standing alone next to his desk. Ariadne tsked softly under her breath as exhaustion bled through Arthur’s shoulders and his impeccable posture vanished.

“Shit.” The word was quiet but heartfelt and that was it. If these two assholes were going to keep playing passive-aggressive long-distance love affair, then damn it, she was gonna do something about it.


	3. Chapter 3

Ariadne confronted Arthur in the hotel room they were sharing, catching him just as he left the bathroom, towel-drying his hair.

“Nice to see Eames again, isn’t it?”

Arthur flinched barely imperceptibly, face cool and blank under the towel. “I suppose. He is good at what he does.”

Ariadne grinned and rolled over on her bed, wiggling her bare toes against the duvet. “I mean, it’s been a while since we ran into him! I’ve texted him a bit, but it’s better to see him in person.”

“Mm.”

Ariadne frowned as Arthur dropped the towel onto his bed and rummaged in his bag for his favorite threadbare white t-shirt. This wasn’t working. Time for a more pointed strike.

“But you’ve kept in contact with him, right? I mean, you were updating him on where we were.”

Arthur froze in the middle of pulling his shirt over his head. “How did…” He huffed a laugh, tugging the shirt on the rest of the way. “My phone. You little sneak.”

Ariadne ignored him, sitting up and putting her book to the side. “Arthur—”

“I’m not talking about this.”

“Arthur.”

“Ariadne.”

She stuck her tongue out at him and he returned the gesture effortlessly before falling backwards onto the bed, hands behind his head as he stared at the ceiling. Ariadne let him have a beat before she opened her mouth again.

“Arthur, have you ever maybe considered that maybe Eames cares about you just as much as you care about him?”

Arthur was silent and Ariadne took that as her sign to press forward.

“I mean, this dancing around does-he-doesn’t-he thing is starting to get old.”

“Eames is an excellent forger.” Arthur said. His voice was flat and rehearsed, as though he’d repeated the words to himself a thousand times, and he didn’t look away from the ceiling. “And I will not sabotage a perfectly good professional relationship.”

Ariadne stared at him. “Are you kidding?”

“Ariadne—”                                                          

“No, like actually, are you kidding right now, because that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

Arthur rolled over to look at her, propping his head up on one arm. He looked unimpressed and a little irritated. “Ariadne, my love life is not open for debate or discussion.”

Ariadne rolled her eyes to the ceiling and cursed stubborn men in her head. Arthur reached over and clicked out the light on the lamp next to the bed, rolling over and pulling the pillow over his head. The conversation was over.

Arthur, 1, Ariadne, 0.

Maybe Eames would be more receptive.

\--

Eames was not more receptive.

“Where the hell did you get that idea?” The forger asked, voice steady and even as he practiced the motions of James Harrison’s secretary in a small mirror in the middle of the warehouse. He reached up around his eyes and mimed adjusting a pair of glasses. Ariadne leaned against the wall next to the mirror, watching his face.

“I’m just saying, it’s been pretty obvious there’s something going on between the two of you. And unless there’s some sort of anti-fraternization rule among dream sharers I don’t know about, I don’t see why you two don’t do something about it.”

Eames was quiet for a moment, twisting his lips in the wry expression that Monica Avery wore when she worked on Harrison’s schedule. “Arthur is an excellent point man. Don’t tell him I said that, of course, the praise would inflate his head to the size of a bloody watermelon, but he’s good at his job. It would be a shame to have him refuse to work with me because I couldn’t keep it in my pants.”

Ariadne scoffed, uncrossing her arms and putting them on her hips in what she hoped was stern and lecturing. “Oh my god, you two are completely ridiculous, you know that right?”

Eames stared at his reflection for a second and then sighed and turned to look at her. “What do you want from us, Ariadne?” He asked. His face was completely serious, strangely devoid of any of the usual laughter. “You want me to go in there and confess my undying love for our bloody point man? And not the ‘I-want-to-sleep-with-you’ kind of love the ‘I-want-to-wake-up-in-the-morning-next-to-you-and-drive-our-kids-to-bloody-fucking-football-practice’ love? And then, if by some miracle he doesn’t shoot me on sight, what then?”

Eames stopped then, turning away from her sharply. He seemed slightly embarrassed that he’d lost control so easily. “Let it go, Ariadne.” He said. There was tension in his shoulders, his posture awkward and stiff as he shoved his hands in his pockets. “And stop messing around in things that don’t concern you.”

Ariadne’s eyebrows shot up but Eames was already strolling towards the warehouse doors away from her, slipping outside as he shook a cigarette into his hand from a thin white box.

She huffed out a breath of pure frustration, yanking her fingers through her hair. “Damn it.”

“Hey, Ariadne, come here.”

“Coming.” Ariadne turned her back on the warehouse door and readied her mind, pushing everything with Arthur and Eames into a little box in the back of her brain and locking it tightly. After all, they still had a job to do, and James Harrison’s mind wasn’t going to break into itself.

\--

The last week before they were scheduled to go under was… awkward. That was really the only word for it. Arthur and Eames were extremely short and professional with each other to the point of being almost scary polite. Gretel couldn’t seem to figure out what was wrong with the two of them, and had decided clearly that she didn’t particularly want to know as long as it didn’t affect their job performance.

Ariadne was irritated with them both, but mostly irritated with herself. She’d stirred up something that had gone ignored for years, and her good intentions had paved the proverbial road straight into an uncomfortable hell.

In the center of the warehouse, Arthur was flat on his back, eyes closed, PASIV in his arm. He’d lightened up his wardrobe a bit for the suffocating Florida heat, stripping away his jacket and tie and rolling his sleeves. Mark crouched next to him, prodding him in the cheek before turning away to write something on his clipboard.

Ariadne put down her pencil and crossed the warehouse to stand beside them. She grabbed the second line into the PASIV and sat on the chair adjacent to him. Mark blinked at her and she smiled slightly.

“I put a little more into the level.” She explained, and he shrugged.

“Five minutes.”

Ariadne nodded and closed her eyes, breathing in, out, in—

She stood in the middle of the lobby and made a mental note to add more windows. Everything was polished, crisp and neat, and Arthur had done a hell of a job with her world, like always.

The receptionist didn’t look up as Ariadne headed towards the bank of elevators. She reached for the button, changed her mind, and headed for the stairwell instead. She knew exactly what part of the world that Arthur would want to make absolutely sure was working.

She found him sitting on the fourth floor landing, legs dangling off the edge of the staircase. He didn’t look up as she approached.

“How’s the level look?”

“Great.” She said honestly. She crouched down and sat next to him, slipping her legs over the edge to dangle next to his. “Penrose steps?”

Arthur huffed a soft laugh. “Saved our asses during the Saito job.”

Ariadne smiled softly and they fell into a brief, comfortable silence until she cleared her throat.

“So the first level will be his office building, and then we’ll take him a level deeper to the restaurant?”

Arthur nodded. “Yes. Start him out somewhere comfortable and familiar and then take him to the restaurant where he schmoozes clients. We’ll have Eames forging Monica Avery on the first level to get Harrison to relax and he should be none the wiser on the second.”

Ariadne hesitated. Beneath her legs, the concrete stairs were cool and rough. “Arthur, about Eames… I’m sorry. I meddled.”

Arthur was silent for a moment, just long enough that Ariadne began to awkwardly shift in place before he shook his head. “Don’t worry about it.”

“No, really, it wasn’t my place, and I shouldn’t try and—”

Arthur put a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t. Everything’s fine.”

It was typical of Arthur to put everything he had into avoiding uncomfortable situations. Ariadne ducked her head. Somewhere above them, a door opened and shut with a bang, sending the echo bouncing through the empty stairwell.

“I added something to the bottom floor.” She said finally, hesitantly, almost as a peace offering and Arthur latched onto the subject change, going from quiet and comfortable to sharp and professional in the blink of an eye.

“Show me what you’ve done.”

Ariadne smiled.


	4. Chapter 4

Predictably, just as things were starting to look up, everything went to straight to hell. One second, Ariadne had been standing a few feet from Gretel in the middle of the office lobby she’d designed, watching Eames lure James Harrison into the elevator to his office, and the next she was on her back, staring at the ceiling, and everything hurt.

The floor rumbled uneasily and she lifted her head to see Arthur across the room. He was jackknifed over a handrail she’d put on the wheelchair ramp that led down to the front doors of the office building, slumped to the floor, unconscious. It looked like the muscled projection next to the wall had thrown him into the railing and he’d whacked his head on the metal support. Gretel was slowly getting to her feet, eyes sharp as steel as she carefully assessed the situation. A streak of crimson blood stood stark against her forehead.

James Harrison stood in front of the elevators, arm around Eames’ neck and a gun to his head. His eyes were wild and alert, teeth bared like a cornered animal.

“Which one of you is it!?” He shrieked. “Dream workers, sneaking into my mind like, like, like _thieves_! I don’t know what you’re here for, but you can’t have it! Did you hear me!? You can’t _have_ it!”

Ariadne met Eames’ eyes and he blinked, slowly, once. Around them, the world lurched again and the projections advanced, snarling and bending their fingers into claws. They were devolving rapidly – in seconds, the projections would snap and tear them to pieces. That was if the world didn’t fall apart without Arthur’s conscious mind there to monitor it.

Ariadne blinked back at Eames, closing her eyes briefly. Her eyelashes brushed her cheek and when she opened them again, he was already talking.

“James… Jim, sweetheart, what are you doing?” He sounded terrified, voice high and shrill, and James’ eyebrows creased slightly, meeting in the middle. For that bare instant, he hesitated and his gun hand dipped.

Eames struck, moving gracefully in a twist too fast for Ariadne to follow exactly and snatched the revolver from James’ hand. He whirled around and shot Gretel in the forehead. She vanished halfway to the floor and Ariadne squeezed her eyes shut a second before impact.

When she opened them again, Gretel was yanking the PASIV out of her arm. Ariadne was on her feet in seconds, scrambling to gather their things.

“What happened!?” Mark asked wildly, staring around at all of them as Gretel hauled him to his feet by his collar.

“Later.” She said.

Arthur sucked in a harsh breath of air, coughing as he rolled up off the floor and onto his feet. He stumbled slightly, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead and reached behind him for Eames, who was slumped in an armchair next to Harrison’s desk.

Eames awoke and shot from his chair like he’d been stung, ripping the PASIV needle from his arm and handing it off to Arthur. Arthur caught it as though he’d been expecting the throw, winding it quickly and stowing it in the case. He snapped the case shut and handed it off to Gretel.

James Harrison groaned. He was sitting slumped in his desk chair, his forehead pressed to a stack of forms and he was starting to come around.

“Out, out, _out_.” Arthur hissed. Gretel grabbed Mark by the shirtsleeve and dragged him out after her, heading down the hallway with sharp, precise heel clicks. They made an interesting silhouette, Gretel’s form rigidly tall and straight, like a statue, and Mark’s rumpled, bent form stumbling after her, their shadows linked by her fingers in his shirt cuff.

Arthur’s fingers dug into Ariadne’s lower back slightly as he steered her out the door and directed her down the other end of the hallway. Eames was walking so close to them that his arm brushed Ariadne’s shoulder with every other step.

From behind them, there was a loud thump and a nasty curse.

“Shit.” Eames breathed.

“Monica!” James Harrison was a slim man, slight of build and on the short side, but his voice was powerful and it carried easily down the slick, mahogany hallways of his office building.

Ariadne’s mind was whirring and for a brief, impossible instant she wished she was back in the dream, that she could simply blink and the floor behind them would vanish, or the hallway would stretch on forever and Harrison would never get to them.

Then there was a hand on her upper arm and Eames was pushing her away, sending her stumbling through a doorway they’d just been passing that she hadn’t even noticed, too lost in her panicked thoughts that this might be where her dance with the impossible finally ended. She found herself in an empty conference room, starkly decorated with just the bare essentials. She put her hands on the back of a chair and took a sharp breath, ducking her head and pretending to study the table top.

From the side of her eye, she could see Eames and Arthur through the doorway. After pushing her away into a hiding place (she’d have to thank him for thinking of her. No matter how mature she was for her age, or how good she’d gotten at this game, she simply didn’t have the practice with the illegal that Arthur and Eames did yet), Eames had grabbed Arthur by the tie and yanked him close, stepping back against the wall so that Arthur was practically standing on top of him.

For one crazy moment, Ariadne thought he was going to kiss him.

Then, in a flash, she understood. Harrison would likely be too focused on catching the intruders who had tried to break into his mind to pay much attention to two employees standing still in the hallway. After all, the intruders would be fleeing, not hanging around his office door. And even if he did look their way, the face he’d notice would be Eames’— the one face he hadn’t seen in his dream.

James Harrison’s footsteps pounded down the hallway, not as muffled by the luxurious carpet as Ariadne would have thought. The architect in her mentally adjusted the carpet fibers in her layout when he was suddenly on top of them, marching with a single minded determination past the conference room door.

Ariadne caught her breath and didn’t move, didn’t blink, tried to not even think loudly.

James Harrison was white as a ghost, lips pressed together in a silent rage. “Monica!” He hissed, teeth clenched. “Where the hell are you?”

He didn’t spare Arthur, Eames, or Ariadne a passing glance.

They waited, frozen in place, until Harrison’s footsteps had faded away to nothing. Ariadne’s knees buckled as a wave of pure relief flooded over her, before she pulled herself up straight again, stiffening her spine. They weren’t out of danger yet.

Arthur and Eames stepped apart and Arthur readjusted his tie almost instinctually, fingers going to the knot that Eames had unwittingly loosened.

Eames eyes hovered around the hollow of Arthur’s neck for the barest hint of an instant before he looked up to Ariadne. “Come on, then, let’s get out of here before he decides to come back and shoot us all.”


	5. Chapter 5

They decided to give Harrison nearly a month to cool down. Gretel had wanted to give it more time, but NASH Marketing and Promoting was extremely unhappy with the delay already and they couldn’t afford to put them off any more. It would have to be all or nothing on their next run.

Arthur was tense and irritable, his frustration with figuring out how James had been able to tell they were in his mind bleeding out of him until even Ariadne was approaching him with caution. She spent the time completely reworking her levels – they decided to forget going down to the second level, and take Harrison straight to a restaurant inspired by the one he used to schmooze clients and romance his trysts, and Ariadne was working herself to the bone making sure absolutely every detail was absolutely perfect. A column here, a curtain there… just little details from the real restaurant that would hopefully put Harrison at ease.

Hopefully.

Ariadne had a terrible, unsettled feeling about trying to probe Harrison’s subconscious again, but she tried to shove it aside and ignore it.

Then, about a week before they had scheduled their next attempt, Arthur exploded at Eames. It had been days in the making, Ariadne thought, but she’d still jumped as Arthur’s self-control snapped at the same time as his pencil. Eames reared back, the teasing smile vanishing from his face as he watched Arthur spit words. Words that didn’t mean anything – words that were just Arthur, snapping and venting his frustration on the nearest target available. Words that still cut sharp and quick like a fencer’s blade. Words that were clearly drawing blood.

Even Gretel had an eyebrow raised by the time Arthur had gotten it all out of his system, finally running out of words as he breathed harshly, sucking air through his nose. The warehouse was dead silent as the other members of their team stared at the pair, waiting to see who would be the first to break the fragile silence.

Eames gave in with a quiet nod, just a tilt of his head. “Glad to have gotten that off your chest, then?”

Arthur looked like he’d run a marathon, cheeks flushed, with the light of embarrassment slowly dawning in his eyes. Half of his broken pencil dangled from his fingers, limp at his side.

Eames shook his head and turned away. “I’ll be around.” He said to Gretel, who nodded, brows meeting in the middle of her forehead. She and Mark stepped apart to let Eames pass. The forger headed for the door to the warehouse.

Ariadne looked at Arthur, mouth slightly open. She wanted to shake him, to drag his face down to hers and demand to know what was going on in his head that he was fighting so hard against his own happiness, but she couldn’t force herself to move.

Arthur didn’t say a word and Eames didn’t stop. The door to the warehouse shut with all the finality of a jail cell and, even though Ariadne was 100% confident that Eames wouldn’t abandon them in the middle of a job, it was clear he wouldn’t be around for at least a few days.

Gretel looked as though she dearly wanted to say something but settled instead on turning away and striding across the warehouse towards Mark’s station. Looking uneasily from Arthur to Ariadne, Mark pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and followed Gretel.

Ariadne turned to Arthur and folded her arms, but Arthur didn’t look her way.

Maybe he was afraid of the look he’d find on her face.

After a long moment, Arthur turned away and returned to his desk. Ariadne watched him go, pressing her lips together in a tight line as he pulled out his chair and sunk down in front of his work.

She was majorly out of her depth here – suddenly it seemed laughable that she thought she’d known him well, that they were close as brother and sister. The more she watched Arthur unravel, the more she wondered if she really knew him at all.

Looking at the back of his head, the curve of his back as he hunched over his desk, Ariadne was convinced that Arthur harbored some sort of love for Eames. And she was more than convinced that Eames felt the same for him – together, the two of them could be the most deadly pair in the dream business. Between the two of them, they had a real chance of forging something worth fighting for and Ariadne just couldn’t figure out what was keeping them from pursuing it.

Maybe there was some kind of history between the two that she wasn’t understanding… some intense fear or paranoia that was holding one or both of them back from tentatively trying to give the other a little happiness.

Maybe they were both just proud, stubborn, insecure people desperately trying to keep their walls built before they were hurt too badly to be repaired.

With a shake of her head, Ariadne tore herself from her thoughts and did the only thing she could think of – she drifted to a secluded section of the warehouse, pulled out her cell phone and called Cobb.

Dom Cobb had gotten his children and his life back the moment he’d stepped onto American soil and he hadn’t looked back at illegal dream work since. He had, however, kept in contact with Ariadne. She’d refused anything less – after all, she’d spent her first dream experiences deep within the man’s subconscious, and that was a bond that couldn’t be broken by distance.

Cobb answered the phone cheerfully, pleased to hear from her. Philippa and James clamored to be allowed to get on the phone so they could tell Aunt Ariadne all about their recent exploits and Ariadne spent a few moments listening very seriously to the Cobb children chatter in her ear.

When Cobb finally wrestled the phone back from his children, Ariadne let the entire story pour out, from the job they were working (minus any details that might get Cobb into trouble) to Arthur and Eames, and her weak attempts to meddle, to her fears that she may have permanently ruined things for the two men, to Arthur’s uncharacteristic explosion that afternoon.

Cobb listened, quietly, letting her speak her piece until she was done. She sat back against the wall, feeling drained and immeasurably tired. Why did she always feel like she needed to _fix_ people? One of these days, her need to meddle in other people’s lives was going to do some real damage. She could only pray that that day hadn’t come today.

“Ariadne, Arthur has been one of my best friends for many years now.” Cobb began. His voice was low and serious and he suddenly sounded ancient. “He was the only one who stood by me when… when Mal passed.”

Ariadne gripped the phone, the flash of pity, anger, and fear at the beautiful woman’s name clenching in her throat, but Cobb barely paused.

“And for as long as I’ve known them, there’s been something between Arthur and Eames. It’s never been anything I’ve asked about, and it’s not my place to tell you even if I had. I can’t tell you why they’ve never chosen to do anything about it – frankly, if I had to guess, I’d say they’re both terrified of opening themselves up that much.”

When Cobb sighed, it sounded like a rush of static over the phone.

“They’re both incredibly emotional people – Arthur feels for people more deeply than anyone I’ve ever met. Mal died and Arthur instantly dropped his entire life to follow me to the ends of the earth, Ariadne. And while Eames may hide it behind jokes and flirtations, he pays more attention than you’d realize. That kind of empathy is dangerous, especially in our— in your field.”

Ariadne sat on the floor silently, fingers curled around her phone. “Do you think I did anything wrong?” She asked, unsure if she actually wanted him to answer.

Cobb was quiet for a moment. “No, Ariadne. If anything, you just revealed an embarrassing secret both had suspected each other of having but had never proved.” His laugh was quiet, more a little huff of air than an actual laugh. “I must say, Ariadne, you have a unique skill.”

Ariadne snorted. “I meddle too much?”

“You make people confront themselves. You force people to reach down inside themselves and pull out secrets they’ve been hiding or ignoring or burying and study them in the light.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

In the background, Ariadne could hear Philippa loudly demanding a sandwich and could almost feel Cobb smile.

“Not necessarily.” He answered her, softly. “I have to go, Ariadne. Good luck with everything.”

“Thanks, Cobb.” Ariadne hung up the phone but didn’t move from her place on the dirty warehouse floor. She sat there for several long minutes, just thinking.

Cobb said she made people confront themselves, to examine their secrets and reconsider. Maybe she could also make people confront each other.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was seriously gonna draw this out a little more but I really hate leaving things in progress. Just a little epilogue after this!

Across the restaurant, Eames was readjusting his cleavage in the low-cut silk number he’d forged for the event. He was wearing Monica Avery well, and if Ariadne hadn’t known for a fact that it was Eames sitting across from James Harrison, she wouldn’t have been able to tell it wasn’t a projection.

And thankfully, Harrison didn’t appear to suspect a thing. He was leaning across the table, lips curled as he lavished Eames with his eyes. Ariadne returned her gaze to her menu, spell-checking the names of the French dishes. Across from her, Arthur was pretending to peruse the wine menu.

“Bordeaux?” She suggested and Arthur looked up sharply. He relaxed slightly and Ariadne got the sudden impression that he’d forgotten she was there. Arthur had been a little off his game ever since Eames has strolled back into the warehouse and greeted him, professional and cool, before immediately turning to discuss the game plan with Gretel and Ariadne had felt for him, especially since she was fairly certain that Arthur had been planning on swallowing some pride and apologizing.

Gretel was currently at the bar, leaning against it and stirring a cocktail lazily with a straw. She looked the very picture of a bored socialite as a few feet in front of her, where he couldn´t see her behind him, Harrison relaxed with Eames.

“What’s he talking about?” Ariadne murmured to Arthur, who glanced up from the wine list to look briefly at Harrison. He frowned for a moment, watching the man’s lips move, and then his brows creased and he went from professional to quietly alarmed in 0.3 seconds.

“Dream sharing.” He whispered and Ariadne felt like ice water had been dumped down her spine.

No, no, no, they couldn’t lose this one again.

“Who the hell is he, Arthur?” Ariadne hissed, leaning across the table. “And how does he know so much about dream sharing?”

Arthur was white, lips pressed in a firm line. “I don’t know.”

And for Ariadne, that was the most terrifying part of it because she _knew_ how hard Arthur had researched James Harrison after he’d so easily uncovered them a month ago. She knew how little he’d slept and how hard he’d tried to make sure that he knew every single piece of information about James Harrison – he could probably recite the man’s family tree, favorite color, and birthday without breaking a sweat.

James Harrison was dangerous, and powerful, and they were smack in the middle of trying to steal something paltry from inside his mind.

“We have to get Eames out of there fast as possible.” Arthur breathed but before he could lift a hand to signal Gretel, Ariadne grabbed his wrist.

“No, he’ll suspect if we try anything suspicious.” Ariadne tried to stay calm, to reason. Eames was still smiling pleasantly, the very picture of Monica Avery, but his back was just a hair too stiff, neck muscles just a little too tight. Something James Harrison was saying was unsettling him.

“So what exactly do you suggest, Ariadne?” Arthur’s voice was low and tight as he flicked through the menu and Ariadne moved her hand from his wrist to his fingers, curling her hand around his and squeezing, trying to project some sort of calm and control.

Think, Ariadne. Think think _think_. All they needed was to get solid evidence that Harrison had spies working in NASH Marketing and Promoting and they could disappear.

Across the room, Eames covered his mouth coquettishly and stood, smooth and easy. He held out Monica’s hand and Harrison took it, bringing his fingers to his lips and kissing Eames’ knuckles. Arthur tensed across the table.

“If we lose sight of Eames, we could lose the whole operation.” Ariadne said distractedly, going to stand. Arthur gripped her hand tighter and yanked, stopping her from rising.

“Sit down.” He hissed. Across the bar, Gretel had pushed off of the bar and was walking the opposite way of Eames and Harrison, face hard. She reached the door that Ariadne had hidden near the kitchen and vanished into the stairwell. “Don’t attract attention.”

They waited a beat, then two more as Eames and Harrison headed through the dining room towards the front lobby. Ariadne had designed it as a bit of a waiting room for a table as well as a failsafe in case Harrison decided to leave the dining hall. She hadn’t designed anything past the restaurant front doors.

“Now.” Arthur stood up, untangling their hands and strode purposefully after Eames and Harrison. Ariadne scrambled up and after him. A few projections glanced their way as they passed, their faces cool, blank, and hard as marble and Ariadne forced herself to ignore them.

They had almost reached the door when there was the distinct pop of a gunshot.

Ariadne gasped and Arthur broke into a sprint, wrenching open the door.

James Harrison faced them, an ugly grin twisting his lips, bloodlust in his eyes. “Hello.” He sneered, before dragging the gun up to his temple and shooting himself out of the dream.

Ariadne started. “Arthur!”

“I know!” Arthur yanked out his gun and turned it on her.

Ariadne opened her eyes to Eames. He was talking, fast and low.

“Come on, now, James, you don’t want a murder clouding up your reputation.” Eames swallowed as Ariadne slowly sat up. James Harrison had an arm around Eames’ neck, a gun pressed to his temple. Eames was standing loosely, eyes fixed on Ariadne. In the corner, Gretel was just opening her eyes to find herself bound to Mark. Her steel eyes flashed, but she said nothing in the light of the shotgun that the real Monica Avery had trained on her.

Harrison snorted. “Murder? For you people? You sneak around thoughts and dreams like fucking ghosts.” He tightened his grip on Eames’ throat. “No one will even notice you’re gone.”

Ariadne swallowed hard when behind her, Arthur cleared his throat. “Mr. Harrison.”

Harrison’s eyes flashed and Eames flicked his gaze to Arthur. Arthur was standing calmly, hands up in defense and he took a step forward. Harrison pressed the gun tighter to Eames’ temple. “Closer and your friend dies!” He snarled. Arthur froze instantly, tongue darting out to lick his dry lips.

“Ok, look, I’m not moving. I’m not even armed. You have the advantage.” Arthur said quietly. “Don’t do anything rash, Mr. Harrison.”

“Rash!?” Harrison laughed, the noise a broken kind of rasping howl. “Rash was getting involved with you people in the first place.”

Monica tightened her grip on the shotgun and Arthur’s eyes skittered to her before returning to Eames and Harrison.

“Getting involved, Mr. Harrison?” He was trying to keep James talking. Ariadne realized this was up to her – she had to get her thoughts together and be ready to move when Arthur eventually lost control of the situation.

But what could she do? Their weapons had all been taken from them before they woke up. Monica Avery had taken care of that, judging by the small pile of firearms in the corner and the lack of her little pistol’s familiar weight at her hip.

Harrison tightened his arm around Eames’ neck so much so that the forger couldn’t help the little choked cough as he struggled to breathe. Arthur stepped forward barely half a step before he caught himself.

“Dream sharers…” Harrison scoffed and it was only then that Ariadne realized he was shaking, the hand holding the gun to Eames’ temple quivering involuntarily. “They told me it would make me rich beyond my wildest dreams. Rich! You know what it did?” He shook Eames, who to his credit, barely twitched an eyelid. "It _destroyed_ me.”

Suddenly Ariadne understood. James Harrison hadn’t just been trained against extraction – he’d attempted it.

Arthur let out a breath then, long and slow and steady before he swallowed, parting his lips to speak. “You can’t separate dream from reality anymore, can you, Mr. Harrison?”

Monica Avery’s eyes had strayed from Gretel and Mark to watch the showdown and Ariadne could see Mark carefully wiggling a small dagger from Gretel’s boot, glasses slipping on the sweat that had built on the bridge of his nose.

“Everything’s a dream.” Harrison said hoarsely. “And not a dream. I could be dreaming right now! Is this real!? Are you!?” His voice rose in pitch until he was screaming. Eames hand came up to grasp at Harrison’s arm around his throat, trying to get a little air.

“Let him go.” Arthur’s voice was sharp. “This is real, Harrison. This office is real. Your life here is real. Your affair with your secretary is real, and so is your sister over in Louisiana. Open your eyes.”

Harrison glared at him and didn’t move. “How can I know this isn’t just another _lie_ dream sharers have told me? How can I _possibly_ trust you when you’ve been poking around in my head!?”

Arthur looked at Eames then, and something flashed behind his eyes, something dark and resigned and a little bit guilty and regretful. Ariadne frowned, getting a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach. In the corner, Mark had freed the dagger and was now carefully working on slicing through the zip-ties that bound his hands to Gretel’s. Gretel wasn’t moving, eyes on Monica Avery with quick flicks to Arthur.

Then Arthur stepped forward. Harrison choked and shook Eames again, as though to remind Arthur that he had him. “Stop! I told you not to move or he dies!”

Eames gasped out a breath. “Arth—” But the name was choked off as Harrison tightened his grip again. Arthur closed his eyes briefly and then leveled his gaze at Harrison.

“Shoot me.”

A pin could have dropped and it would have deafened them all.

Ariadne stared at him, panic welling up inside her chest. “Ar—” She whispered but Harrison cut her off.

“What did you say!?” He stared at Arthur like he was a being from another planet, grip on Eames’ neck loosening in his surprise just enough for Eames to gasp for air.

Arthur spread his arms wide, like he was asking for a hug. “You asked how you could trust that this is reality. Shoot me. If I don’t vanish, then you’re not dreaming.”

“Darling, _no_.”

Arthur ignored Eames’ pleading rasp and stared Harrison down. “I’m waiting, James.” He said coldly, chin held up, proud and steady.

For a second, Ariadne was sure Harrison wasn’t going to do it. Eames was staring at Arthur with a twisted, desperate look on his face and the entire room was frozen still.

Then Harrison shoved Eames away from him and swung the gun up, squeezing the trigger.

The gunshot was louder than any Ariadne had heard before and she jumped, violently. Arthur’s body jerked backwards with the force of the shot and he slumped, hand going instinctually to the wound. Ariadne choked back her shriek and flew towards him, catching him against her as he teetered on his feet.

She barely registered that the room had exploded into motion, too busy trying to find where the bullet had lodged. Gretel had launched herself at Monica Avery and had taken her down in less than two seconds, knee in the blonde secretary’s back while Mark had followed Eames towards Harrison. Eames was on top of Harrison, slamming his fist into the businessman’s face over and over again while Mark yanked on him, trying to get Eames off of him.

Mark was shouting and Eames was mumbling words, senseless meaningless words in a steady unrelenting stream as he poured every ounce of ugly emotion into beating the absolute hell out of James Harrison.

But Ariadne wasn’t paying attention to any of that. Ariadne had ripped off her scarf and torn open Arthur’s shirt, quickly locating the source of his bleeding. James had shot high, missing Arthur’s heart, but the 9mm round had lodged somewhere in his shoulder.

“Fuck.” Arthur breathed, tilting his head back as he clutched his shoulder. Ariadne batted his hands away.

“That was so fucking _stupid_ , you asshole.” Her voice caught on the word asshole and she frantically fought back the tears. He’d gotten himself _shot_ trying to save them all because he was an _idiot_ and— “Don’t you ever do that to me again.” She snapped. “There are so many shitty motels we haven’t stayed in.”

Arthur huffed a laugh, eyes fluttering. Ariadne pressed her scarf against the wound in his shoulder.

Behind her, Gretel and Mark managed to haul Eames off of Harrison and the forger was glaring down at him, blood staining his knuckles.

Harrison was unconscious – his nose was broken and at least one eye was bruised, maybe both. Monica Avery was also unconscious, the result of Gretel’s quick rabbit chop to the back of the head, and was zip-tied in the corner.

For a second, the only sound was Eames’ harsh breathing.

“Eames.”

Eames started, spinning to stare at Arthur, sitting on the floor against the wall with Ariadne pressing her scarf against this shoulder and very much alive. It was amazing how visible the tension was as it drained from Eames’ shoulders and in seconds Eames was across the room and on his knees, reaching for the scarf Ariadne was using as a compress. She relented, sitting back on her heels and Eames gently took it from her.

Arthur glanced over Eames’ shoulder. “Did you kill him?”

“I bloody hope so.” Eames peeled away the scarf and examined the wound beneath it. “Fuck, darling, I thought he’d killed you.”

Arthur shook his head. “Guy’s a lousy shot.”

Eames glared at him and Ariadne held her breath. There was emotion swimming in Eames’ eyes, powerful, raw emotion, and it gave him a bit of a wild look, like everything he thought he knew had been stripped down and bared for the world to see. “Arthur, you taunted a madman into _shooting_ you.”

“He had a gun to your head, Eames, I saved your life.”

“I didn’t ask for you to save my life!” Eames snapped and Arthur winced as Eames pressed too hard with the scarf. “Arthur, what would it all have meant if you died and—”

“You would be _alive_ , you complete moron, or did you forget he had a _gun_ to your head?”

“But you _wouldn’t_ be alive!”

“So _what_?”

“So I’m not going to live in a world without you in it, you fucking idiot.” Eames hissed, throwing Ariadne’s scarf to the ground in frustration. Arthur stared at him, hand on his shoulder over his gunshot wound, and there was a single, tense moment of strained suspense before Eames lurched forward and caught Arthur’s lips in a kiss, solid and present and very much full of as much emotion as he could put into it for its brevity.

The kiss ended as quickly as it had begun as Eames sat back on his heels and just looked at Arthur. The look between them spoke volumes and Arthur smiled, a tiny quirk of the corner of his mouth. Eames breathed out in a relieved rush, lifting a hand to his forehead.

Ariadne couldn’t get the grin off her face and for a wild instant she considered tipping her totem just to prove to herself that that really had just happened.

“Not that I want to shatter this touching moment.” Gretel’s voice was tight and suddenly Ariadne was snapped back the reality where they still had a CEO bludgeoned next to his tied up secretary and no direct means of escape.

In an instant, Arthur and Eames were professionals again, and Arthur was slowly getting to his feet, wincing as it jostled his arm. Eames went to his good side and Arthur leaned against him.

“Good, let’s—” Gretel blinked. “Mark. What are you doing?”

Mark straightened up from where he was carefully injecting a syringe of clear liquid into Monica Avery’s upper arm. “Oh.” His hand went nervously to his glasses and he pushed them up the bridge of his nose. “Well, I’ve been working on a new painkiller recently that I haven’t released to market yet because there’s a rather unfortunate side effect.” Then he grinned and Ariadne was taken aback by the pure deviousness of his expression. “Memory loss.”

There was a pause before Gretel barked what might be considered a laugh and shook her head. “Come on, let’s get out of here before someone comes to investigate all the noise Eames made.” She bent and swiftly cut Monica loose before doing the same to James. They left them laying sprawled on the floor, hands stretched unconsciously towards each other.

Gretel and Mark slipped out into the hallway, Gretel with the PASIV and Mark with a briefcase full of illegal chemicals, and wasted no time vanishing into a nearby stairwell while Arthur and Eames made their way towards the door, Arthur largely walking under his own power, but Eames not willing to step too far away from him.

Ariadne took one last look at James Harrison’s bloody face and felt a swift sting of pity for the man whose greed and ambition had driven him to be unable to separate dream from reality. Ariadne reached into her pocket and gripped her totem.

“Ariadne, come on.” Arthur’s hiss floated around the corner from the hallway and Ariadne withdrew her hand from her pocket, letting the chess piece fall against the fabric of her sweatshirt.

“Coming.”

She reached out and flicked the lights off, plunging the room into darkness.


	7. Epilogue

Gretel informed NASH Marketing and Promoting that although they were unable to attain the information they’d asked for, the company probably wouldn’t have to worry about James Harrison for very much longer. Six weeks after they’d left him broken and bleeding in his office, CNN did a story about a wealthy young businessman declared by the courts to be mentally insane and unfit for his position.

Gretel and Mark parted ways with them in Deerfield Beach. A sheepish Mark shook Arthur’s hand and kissed Ariadne on the cheek, wishing them well. Gretel embraced Arthur, squeezing him as she avoided his injured shoulder and told him he’d better keep her updated on his whereabouts.

There was a moment then, as Eames and Arthur faced each other, where Ariadne had to quell a sudden stab of fear that now that the adrenaline had worn off, they’d be back to their old song and dance. That nothing would have changed and she’d be left to play nursemaid to a broken heart.

It was firmly stomped when Arthur, a faint smile playing around his lips, said, “So, I was thinking a break might be nice. How does Hawai’i sound to you?”

Eames had grinned broadly and answered with a breathy “ _Darling…”_

Months passed. Ariadne separated from Arthur and Eames for a while and did some freelance work, joining a few other teams and trying her skills with other point men, other extractors, other forgers. She was beginning to make a name for herself – the paradoxical architect.

But she never felt like she worked quite as well as she did when she was with Arthur or Eames, and so it was a relief when one rainy day in London, she got a text message with directions to a bakery.

When she turned the corner, Arthur was there, reading a newspaper under an awning. His shoulder was healed by now, if occasionally a little stiff, and Ariadne was glad to see him.

“Ariadne.” Arthur stepped closer and kissed her cheek before pulling her into his side in a quick, one-armed hug. She squeaked, unused to the public display of affection, but she supposed Eames must have been a good influence on him. Arthur certainly looked happier, with a lightness about the corners of his eyes and a color in his cheeks that stripped away years of professionalism and heartache and made him look younger, more enthusiastic.

He was giving her the details of the job in a little pub in downtown London when something suddenly caught his eye. He broke off in the middle of a word and smiled, digging in his pocket and pulling out his phone. He raised it to eye level and snapped a picture before turning it and showing Ariadne.

It was of the painting in the corner of the restaurant, some landscape that Ariadne didn’t recognize but that Arthur clearly did. She smiled, remembering the train into Spain all those months ago and the surreptitious phone pictures trading scenery and inside jokes that had been their way of keeping tabs on each other without admitting it.

“For Eames?” She asked, reaching forward and taking a sip of her wine.

Arthur tapped a final button on his phone, sending the picture message. He grinned at her and returned to his meal, settling his napkin in his lap and reaching for his wine glass.

He didn’t say anything but the little smile behind his wine glass told Ariadne everything she needed to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's that! Thanks for reading! Hopefully, I did the movie and characters justice, and you enjoyed reading as much as I enjoyed writing. :)


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